


a day in the life of the feanorians: a sitcom

by ravenditefairylights



Series: noldolantë [19]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comedy, Crack Treated Seriously, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Family Dinners, Family Feels, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Good Dad Fëanor, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Tolkien Secret Santa 2020, Trans Male Character, let feanor hold a baby, valinor happy ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28169025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenditefairylights/pseuds/ravenditefairylights
Summary: “Everything is fine,” is the first thing out of Maglor’s mouth. It is not as reassuring as he probably hopes it is. Maglor is dressed into formal red and bronze formal robes, with a grey cape hanging behind him. It is a very fashionable choice; Fëanor, as a fashionable person himself, can confirm it. “No one is dying,” Maglor continues. “No one is in mortal peril, no one has any problems, we’ve just… slightly miscalculated.”or, for the holidays, Fëanor and Nerdanel invite all of their children and grandchildren andgreat-grandchildren for dinner in their house. It doesn't get as wild as that time Maglor and Celegorm got drunk and threw their younger brothers into a fountain while Aredhel cheered them on, but by the family standards it's a dinner that will be remembered for quite some time.
Relationships: Amarië/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maglor | Makalaurë/Maglor's Wife, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: noldolantë [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122167
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	a day in the life of the feanorians: a sitcom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ambrorussa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambrorussa/gifts).



> this is my tolkien secret santa gift to [welcometolotr](https://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/)!!!! not sure if it was what you had in mind, but i hope you like it!!!  
> anyway, let's give some background notes:
> 
> \- after the end of the first age, maglor wandered around the world, occasionally visiting elrond and his family. accidentally married daeron at some point but everyone is taking that surprisingly well, including his wife  
> \- lindamilyo is maglor's son with liriel who stayed in valinor because he was very young when maglor and the rest of the noldor left for beleriand. after elrond's twins dragged maglor back to valinor, they've been rebuilding their relationship  
> \- elenya/alyanarë is celegorm's daughter with a sinda lady named aldana, who has earned the worst mom of the year award. elenya was born in beleriand and led her dad's army and participated in the kislayings, becoming later the unofficial ruler of eregion. [i have rambled about her before](https://feanoriansappreciation.tumblr.com/post/631759864639668224/finweanladiesweek-day-6-original-characters)  
> \- everyone has been resurrected and living peacefully on valinor, with the freedom to travel back to middle earth should they decide to do so. the drama to get to that point has already happened, everyone has been pardoned to various degrees of success, and the logistics of that are not really discussed bc angst who  
> \- divorces exist bc aldana and celegorm invented them, and also bc if you think im letting eol within a km of aredhel and maeglin, think again

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in a large household will fret over the preparations when she has guests over. Nerdanel, once-over Queen of the Noldor, is not exempt from that number.

“What are you still doing here?” she demands of Fëanor, who is currently fixing one of the lamps in their living room. He’s still in his work clothes, the ones he uses when he decides to go mess around in the forges and never goes any further than lounging on different pieces of furniture inside the house or staring at Nerdanel as she works for hours. “The children are going to be here soon!”

“But soon isn’t for at least three hours!” Fëanor complains, but then he sits up a bit straighter. “We _do_ have three more hours, right?” he raises his eyes instinctively to look at the clock on the wall to check the time—only to blink at the very much clockless green wall, and remember abruptly that the clock broke last week and he took it to his forge to fix it and ended up losing it somewhere.

“Three and a half,” Nerdanel says, hands on her hips, her red apron stained with all sorts of colors. “But you still need to be ready!”

“I am ready!” Fëanor protests, and straightens himself up to his full height, that is still significantly shorter than Nerdanel’s. “I am very ready! I have been ready all month! I can’t wait for the kids to come over!”

“You’re not even dressed!” Nerdanel points out, staring at her husband’s casual home clothes. She’s not dressed properly for the occasion either, but a) Nerdanel doesn’t really like to dress up as a rule and prefers soft and comfortable clothes and b) she’s doing the housework at the moment, so she can be excused.

“Well, no,” Fëanor admits, looking down at his clothes and wiggling his feet. “But you did tell me to clean the living room, honey.”

Nerdanel sighs. “Yes, I did,” she allows. “Alright, fix whatever you’re fixing and then help me set the table, won’t you?”

“Of course, dear,” Fëanor says immediately. He was going to do so as well, but the chiming sound of the bell Fëanor himself had installed on their door a few months ago, to be alarmed of guests when they arrived, sounded around the house. Fëanor and Nerdanel looked at each other and frowned. “You did say three and a half hours, right?”

“I did,” Nerdanel confirms. She’s a little pale, looking down at her apron as if wondering whether or not she should get rid of it. It’s nothing the kids haven’t seen before, but it does bode well to receive guests more dressed up.

“And you’re _sure_ it was three and a half hours?” Fëanor asks. He sounds dubious, and Nerdanel sends him a pointed look. “Not that I think that you’d lie to me! Or that you’d be wrong! Just that—” Another flat stare. Fëanor sighs. “You’re right, honey, you did say three and a half hours. Probably someone came here early. Maybe Nolofinwë run away—wouldn’t that be fun?”

“You love your brother,” Nerdanel says, and it sounds more like a command than an observation. “I’ll just go get the door.”

As Nerdanel goes to do exactly that, Fëanor hurries to put the replaced lamp away so he can trail curiously behind her as she opens the door. The truth is, that this could theoretically be a lot of people, but Fëanor can’t imagine who it _would_ be. His family visits either too often or too rarely, but the house is always open to his large assortment of children and grandchildren, most of whom prefer to appear unannounced. Maybe someone bringing food over?

Nerdanel opens the door.

“Everything is fine,” is the first thing out of Maglor’s mouth. It is not as reassuring as he probably hopes it is. Maglor is dressed into formal red and bronze formal robes, with a grey cape hanging behind him. It is a very fashionable choice; Fëanor, as a fashionable person himself, can confirm it. His wife, Líriel, is wearing a long blue and silver dress—very beautiful—and his husband, Daeron, is wearing a green and silver cloak. Fëanor sees the pattern and appreciates it.

“Makalaurë,” Nerdanel says, surprised. Behind the three of them, Lindamilyo has their arms crossed over their chest—robes in their mother’s colors—and even further back, Elrond and Celebrían smile at them. Fëanor smiles back. “You’re early.”

“No one is dying,” Maglor continues. “No one is in mortal peril, no one has any problems, we’ve just… slightly miscalculated.”

“Slightly,” Lindamilyo mutters under their breath. It’s still very easily audible. Elrond elbows them in the ribs, smiling pleasantly.

“Alright, by a lot,” Maglor amends. “But the point is—we’re here early, but only by our own mistake.”

“ _Your_ mistake,” Lindamilyo mutters again. Elrond elbows them again. Maglor turns back to squint at them.

“Aren’t you my oldest child?” he asks. “Why aren’t you on my side?”

Líriel laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Our apologies, Fëanor, Nerdanel,” she says to them. “We miscalculated—I know it’s inconvenient to have us here so early. But the kids and I can help you if you need something.”

“Or stay out of the way,” Daeron supplies. “You know, in case you don’t need something.”

“Ah, there’s no need to trouble yourselves!” Nerdanel says, regaining her footing. “Come in, come in—Fëanor was fixing something in the living room. Lindamilyo, darling? How are you? Elrond, so nice to see you again—Celebrían, my dear, how is your mother doing? I heard she and Celeborn went on vacation. Daeron, glad to have you again! Líriel, my dear, I was just about to start cooking—what do you think about the dessert?”

As Nerdanel singles out her favourite—she will never admit so—daughter-in-law, Fëanor leads the rest of their children and grandchildren to the living room.

“Mum didn’t spring clean again, did she?” Maglor asks, keeping his voice low even though his mother is talking with Líriel, too preoccupied to notice.

“No,” Fëanor says. “I mean, for a few days there I thought she might, but thankfully not. “Her mother came to stay with us for a few days—to prevent that very disaster, I assume. You know how your mother gets when she’s stressed, and it’s not even ‘just the kids’ anymore. There’s so many of you!”

“Are you complaining?” Maglor raises an eyebrow at him. “Let me help you with that,” he offers in the next moment, and Fëanor hands him the things that won’t break if they fall down when Maglor inevitably forgets that he’s holding them.

Daeron sits on one of the sofas, looking comfortable but a little unsure; Fëanor is used to this by now, Daeron always enters their house like he’s waiting to be kicked out any second, despite centuries of being married to Maglor at this point, for reasons far from Fëanor’s comprehension. Lindamilyo sits sprawled on the sofa, one leg tucked under them. Celebrían and Elrond sit more properly next to him; the latter sharing a silent conversation through various stares with his brother. Fëanor has never sat properly in a chair his whole life. It would be hypocritical to care how Lindamilyo is sitting now.

“Aren’t you the one always saying how much you wanted to have a big family when you were younger?” Lindamilyo asks. “You can say you lived your dream—you have quite possibly the largest family in all Valinor.”

“It’s really to your credit that you’re so creative with the begetting day presents, grandfather,” Celebrían laughs. “The one you sent for Elrond’s begetting day was very special.”

“Yes,” Elrond agrees. “Though I admit that I still can’t figure out what it is.”

Celebrían laughs. “Well, it makes a lovely vase for my living room, whatever it is.”

Fëanor, who can’t remember what he sent for Elrond’s begetting day, stays silent. The pros of having a lot of grandchildren and great-grandchildren is that he has many grandchildren and grandchildren; none young enough to sit on his lap, unfortunately, though Elenya has no problem demanding cuddles from everyone. The cons of having a lot of grandchildren and great-grandchildren is that making and distributing their begetting day is a fever dream. Fëanor holds memories until the presents leave his hands, and then the information is erased from his brain.

“The boys?” he inquires, because Elrond and Celebrían usually bring their sons as well when they visit.

“Elladan and Elrohir are going to come over on time,” Elrond says, smiling at Maglor. “Dad rushed us all here three hours earlier because we were all in his house, but Elladan and Elrohir were staying at Thranduil’s this week, with Legolas and Gimli.”

“Ah, Gimli!” Fëanor says with interest. “Is there a chance he might be coming over as well?”

“Ah, I don’t know,” Elrond says, sounding truly sad. “I don’t think so, grandfather. Maybe if you invited him some other time?”

The doorbell rings again before Fëanor can agree whole-heartedly. Daeron frowns.

“I thought the twins weren’t coming?” he asks. “Or did other people get as confused as we did?”

The living room is closer to wherever Nerdanel and Líriel have disappeared off to, so Fëanor gets to the door first. That is not to say that Nerdanel doesn’t get there in time to stand next to him when he opens the door, or that the children aren’t hovering behind them curiously. Nerdanel and Fëanor exchange a bewildered glance. The doorbell rings again, more insistent, so Fëanor and Nerdanel have a mental battle with pointed glances that ends—unsurprisingly—with Fëanor losing and moving to open the door.

“I’m sorry!” Amarië burst into tears as soon as Fëanor makes eye-contact. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go!”

Under different circumstances, Fëanor might have pointed out that Amarië had, in fact, an abundance of places to go to; but she is currently a) sobbing uncontrollably on his doorstep, b) holding her baby tight enough that Fëanor worries the poor thing might be suffocated by accident, and c) Nerdanel would glare at him, and things are always bad when Nerdanel glares at him.

“Ah, Amarië dear,” Nerdanel says awkwardly, passing by Fëanor to get to her; she takes the baby from Amarië’s grip and promptly passes it to Fëanor, who cannot help but coo at it. As soon as Amarië is no longer holding the baby, she seems to crumble, throwing herself in Nerdanel’s arms. Nerdanel pats her back awkwardly and makes a panicked face over Amarië’s shoulder.

Maglor, Líriel and Daeron take a synchronized step back with identical horrified expressions, and Elrond rolls his eyes and steps forward. He and Celebrían crowd on either side of Amarië with similar kind and sympathetic expressions. Fëanor is convinced this is a practiced face. Elrond is a wonderful lad, but no one can have the emotional strength required to deal with things like that as often as Elrond does.

Maedhros insists it’s a habit ingrained into Elrond from his years of practice as a healer, and that “it’s really not that terrible to be a little more considerate, dad” so Fëanor knows who Elrond gets it from, and it’s not Maglor, as most people usually assume.

“We didn’t invite Amarië, did we?” Lindamilyo asks, as the woman in question is escorted towards the living room, who seems to be very popular today. “I mean, isn’t she and uncle Finrod going to uncle Finrod’s parents’ place?”

“Finarfin was going to spend the holiday with Eärwen’s parents, yes,” Líriel says. “They’ll be going to Alqualondë—pretty sure she’s supposed to be packing for a trip and not crying at our doorstep.”

Daeron looks around in concern. “Should we… you know. Help?”

“What, with her _feelings?”_ Líriel asks, not quite managing to hide her grimace at the prospect. “I’m pretty sure Elrond and Celebrían can handle this just fine. It’s a good thing we were early, as it turns out. We brought the people with braincells along with us.”

“We can offer our, uh, emotional support with our presence?” Maglor offers. “Like how Curvo wants to yell at you because you’re there when he’s frustrated.”

Líriel shrugs. “Good enough for me.”

Fëanor, who has been making faces at the baby this whole time, hurries to follow them to the scene of the metaphorical crime, bouncing the baby on his hip as he does so, to stop the shrill cries. It’s been so long since he bounced a baby on his hip, and he finds that he has missed it. Maybe Nerdanel will want another baby too—it’s not like he’s _asked_ recently. They have been preoccupied with their many new grandchildren.

“Now, now, Amarië, what is it?” Celebrían asks patiently, rubbing a soothing hand over her back. Elrond sits at her other side, patting her hand comfortingly. “Did something happen?”

“I’m getting divorced!” Amarië cries, and bursts into tears again. Elrond and Celebrían make ‘oh no’ eye contact, as the rest of them look at each other in bewilderment. Fëanor continues to bounce the adorable baby on his hip.

“Really?” Elrond asks, sounding truly curious. “How so? Didn’t you and uncle Finrod get married only a few years ago? Did something happen?”

Amarië’s ensuring explanation is more sobs than actual words, so Fëanor gives up on understanding any of it, and trusts in Elrond’s fantastic abilities to communicate. Nerdanel is hovering behind the couch Amarië is sitting on, looking unsure about whether or not to leave. Lindamilyo, mostly unaffected by the pandemonium, sits on the other couch with Daeron; Líriel and Maglor on either side of them.

“—and all these unlucky things that happened on our wedding!” Fëanor manages to make out from Amarië’s crying. “That was a sign! It has to be! The universe doesn’t want us to be together!”

“There, there,” Celebrían says kindly. “Unlucky occurrences are nothing to make such assumptions of! Luck doesn’t really have all that much to do with your marriage. If it was so—Maglor and Líriel should have divorced the very day after their wedding!”

“What?” Amarië asks, wiping at her eyes with her sleeves. Fëanor’s eyebrow twitches; these are some really nice white robes, it’d be a shame to dirty them.

Elrond looks at Maglor and Líriel pointedly.

“Ah, yes,” Maglor laughs and Líriel share a laugh. “It was a truly eventful wedding. Or well, nerve-wracking, mostly. Elrond likes to hear the story.”

“It’s extremely entertaining,” Lindamilyo snorts. “When I told my friends about it, Andalissë couldn’t stop laughing for a whole hour.”

“Ah, but I’ve never told Elrond my part of the story!” Líriel says, smiling at him. “That day I had woken up a whole later than I had been intending, and in hindsight that should have the first sign that the day wasn’t going to turn out well. My mother was insisting that everyone be happy, and she was dancing around and singing loudly the whole time—dragging my brother to dance with her—and meanwhile I was extremely stressed, and this wasn’t the best for my mental mindset. My father, on the other hand, was wearing mourning clothes and singing funeral ballads all by himself, which was _also_ incredibly bad for my mental mindset.”

Daeron chokes on a laugh, and Amarië manages a small smile.

“They’ve never told you about it?” Lindamilyo asks him. “It’s always a good laugh.”

“I’ve never heard Líriel say it,” Daeron admits. Líriel smiles and pinches his cheek affectionately. “I know Maglor was out of his mind with stress because his brother had literally not shown up the whole day.”

“It was like he was doing it on purpose, the meathead,” Maglor mutters.

“Makalaurë,” Nerdanel scolds. “Tyelkormo has already apologized for that. He didn’t mean to be late.”

“Didn’t mean to get stuck on the other side of Oromë’s forest trapped in a hole in the ground he didn’t see because he was too busy mooning over Oromë either, but that’s exactly what happened,” Maglor grumbles. “Not to mention Ambarussa had sat on my wedding robes and made them all wrinkly—and _that_ was definitely on purpose. Ambaráto’s shit-eating grin was practically a confession.”

“Kánafinwë,” Nerdanel warns.

“Anyway,” Líriel continues breezily after the awkward pause, “we realized the worst part of the day had just started when my hairdresser never showed up on time. We had to send my brother all the way to her house to ask for her, and then it turned out she had been in an accident a few days ago and broken her right arm!”

“Oh no,” Amarië says, with the horror of someone who knows exactly what this entails.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Líriel says. She’s saying this all with an amused smile, like the story will only keep getting funnier, but Fëanor, who has also had a wedding once, knows exactly how stressful that must have been back then. “So, we sent my brother on a desperate errand of finding me a hairdresser at nine in the morning—he looked through every single shop in Alqualondë, the poor thing, and decided not to venture to Tirion cause there wasn’t any time. Naturally, no one could come on such a short notice.”

“I would have fainted on the spot,” Amarië says. “With a hand over my heart, like a romance book character.”

Líriel laughs. “I almost did—when my mother decided she was going to do my hair herself.”

“Oh, but that’s so nice of her!” Amarië says. She’s sniffling still, but she seems to have calmed down somewhat. Maglor and Lindamilyo shake their heads frantically at the same time with identical looks of terror. “Oh,” Amarië says. “It’s not nice of her?” she ventures.

“I love my mother with all my heart,” Líriel says, “but I wouldn’t let her anywhere near my hair if she was the last elf in the world.”

“Ah, so it’s bad,” Amarië concludes. She seems immersed in the story, and Fëanor is happy to have her distracted; it means he gets to hold the baby a bit longer.

“Exactly,” Líriel agrees. “So, you understand I was when I let her, fully knowing my hair would end up being terrible. But it wasn’t like we had many other choices, because I sure as hell couldn’t let my father or my brother do my hair for me—sailors, you understand—and we didn’t really have enough time. But that wasn’t even the worst part!”

Amarië winces. “At this point, I’m not sure I even want to know.”

Líriel laughs. “My grandmother on my father’s side died during the crossing to Valinor when my father was still a baby, so I had never met her. She’s a fun woman, you know, hanging out with grandmother Míriel at Vairë’s but my point is, I didn’t know her because back then she was still dead. But my dad was… very attached to her. He had a single portrait of her hang in our living room. So, here I am, letting my mother destroy my hair, and my father knocks on the door like, can you please put on the wedding dress so grandma can see you?”

“But…” Amarië blinks. “You just said…”

“So, I’m all like ‘dad, we really don’t have time’ and my mother is like ‘honey are you _serious’_ and my father proceeds to look near tear, so needless to say, I caved,” Líriel says with a sigh. “There I am, in my beautiful wedding dress, twirling in front of the portrait of my dead grandmother.”

Maglor snorts, loudly, and then immediately proceeds to try and cover it up with a cough. Líriel rolls her eyes.

“Alright,” she says in a measured tone, “I will allow that this is a _little_ funny.”

“A bit of morbid humor never hurt anyone!” Lindamilyo says cheerfully. Líriel sighs a second time.

“There, if anyone had doubts you were your father’s child,” she mutters. “But yes, it is a little funny in hindsight, though it was not nearly as funny back then. I was going mad with stress over the time, and I stand there posing in front of the portrait, my idiot brother decides this is the perfect time to pass through with a bunch of jam tartes and knocks them all over. All over my _wedding dress._ ”

“Oh dear,” Amarië says, sounding very upset. “Did you clock him over the head? I would have clocked him over the head. Maybe if I had a knife…”

“See, and they say _we_ are the ones promoting murder,” Maglor stage-whispers to Daeron. Amarië appears not to hear him, in any case. Fëanor lets the baby chew on his finger and watches the events unfold.

“To be fair,” Daeron says, “Elenya does promote murder.”

“Elenya doesn’t count.” Maglor waves a hand dismissively. “She built a legendary city and got pardoned before she died, she’s already doing better than all of us.”

“So, my exquisitely beautiful wedding dress is absolutely _ruined,_ covered in berry jam,” Líriel is saying. “I start crying in the middle of the corridor as my father yells at my brother and my mother tries to console me by saying we can still clean it. Needless to say, we cannot. However, I am unaware that at this very moment of despair, Makalaurë is having the exact same problem.”

Amarië blinks, turning to him. “Did your brothers get your robes dirty with jam as well?”

“No,” Maglor chuckles. “My brothers, Curvo and Moryo who were in charge of getting my clothes, made the mistake of ordering them by the wrong measurements, because the list for _my_ wedding robes got mixed up with Tyelko’s order for his new hunting gear.”

“So, you end up with no clothes at all,” Amarië concludes. Maglor nods gravely.

“I end up with no clothes at all,” he says. “Daeron, shut up darling.”

Daeron, who has abandoned any and all pretenses not to look like he’s not laughing his best, shakes his head. “Our wedding might have been terrible, but at least you had clothes back then!”

Maglor snorts. “Fat lot of good they did when the heavens decided our wedding was the perfect time to raise a thunderstorm. I was soaked through!”

“Oh, so I _wasn’t_ soaked through?” Daeron asks. Fëanor knows, because Maglor and Líriel both like to moon over Daeron where Fëanor can unfortunately hear them, that Daeron would have liked to raise a questioning brow, but he can’t.

“It’s not the same,” Maglor returns. “We’re talking about me.”

“No,” Líriel counters, “we’re talking about _me._ And as I was saying, I have fallen into despair, but, it just so happens that my future brother-in-law’s wife is one of the best seamstresses in Tirion, and we send my brother over there to beg for a wedding dress. And it so happens, that at this time, Curufinwë is also heading to his wife’s tailor shop to beg for a spare pair of wedding robes. So, Altissë is working furiously on a pair of blue robes as she chews out Curufinwë for not checking the robe order properly, and my brother appears and asks if they have a wedding dress, any wedding dress, because he ruined my own.”

“Please tell me Altissë charged them additionally for it,” Amarië says, sounding a bit smug.

“She did not,” Maglor says. “But she’s never let either of them live it down.”

“Curufinwë and Altissë turn to my brother simultaneously, with identical scowls of incredulous disapproval and demand, in the same scolding tone; _‘you ruined your sister’s wedding dress?’_. My brother still has nightmares about it,” Líriel laughs. “So, Altissë curses up a storm, pulls out an opaque blue wedding dress and starts modifications, all while lecturing my brother on the importance of fraternal piety and how irresponsible he has been, and how much stress he must be causing me—alternating between scolding my brother and my brother-in-law.”

“Oh, so did you have your clothes on time then?” Amarië asks curiously.

“Well, new clothes, but yes,” Líriel says. “Though I was… extremely late, considering we managed to fall into traffic getting there. I _told_ Makalaurë we should have just picked a venue in Alqualondë, but he was so insistent—”

“Grandfather couldn’t have made it to Alqualondë that week—” Maglor says in what sounds like a centuries-practiced argument.

“Well, he was the king, he could have taken a day off—” Líriel shoots back, and the two of them go back and forth like this for a while. It gives Amarië the opening to notice she’s not holding her baby, and regretfully, Fëanor has to pass the little bun to her. Ah, but wouldn’t it be great if they had another baby again…

The doorbell rings again. Nerdanel and Fëanor look at one another, and then at the time. Nerdanel sighs deeply.

“Well, I was not meant to make cake today,” she says. “I’ll go get the door. Fëanor—actually, no—Elrond dear, won’t you start hoarding people to the dining room? Since it’s this late already, we might as well sit down. Amarië dear, does anyone know where you are? Finrdaráto, maybe? Won’t you let Fëanáro help you send them a message? I’m sure they will all be worried.”

Fëanor gives Amarië what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and proceeds to do, in fact, help her send a message to Finrod. Poor man must be worried out of his mind if he can’t find her.

“Father,” Curufin says. “Hello, Amarië, what are you doing here? Father, mother wants to know where you left the blue bowl last time.

“Oh, Curvo, did you get here already?” Fëanor asks, smiling at him. “Are Altissë and Tyelperinquar with you? We were just telling Amarië the story of Kánafinwë’s wedding.”

“Oh, that’s an immortal story, isn’t it?” Curufin rolls his eyes.

“So are we, son,” Fëanor says. “Come on, Amarië—since you’re here at least come and eat with us. Finrod will take his time coming, either way. We’re pretty far from the city. Curvo—how many of you did I miss?”

“I’m here,” Curufin says, “and Altissë came with me, but Tyelperinquar is coming with Alyanárë and I have no idea when they will show up. Nelyo and Fingon are already helping out mother with the table and the twins are being a hindrance as usual.”

“Right,” Fëanor says. “I thought Elrond and Celebrían were helping—oh, Amarië here, you can sit next to Líriel. Ambarrussa! Not even saying hello anymore, are we? Findekáno, my boy, nice to see you—where is Nelyafinwë?”

“Here, father,” Maedhros says, setting something down the table that had probably been in one of the higher shelves. “How are you doing?”

“Ah, excellent, excellent, my sons!” Fëanor says. Definitely better now that they’re all here within hugging distance. “Where are the rest of you?”

“HERE!” Celegorm yells from somewhere further into the house. It’s followed by a banging sound. Fëanor hears Caranthir curse loudly, which means that all of his sons are definitely in the building.

“Right,” Nerdanel says. She’s discarded the apron and is currently inspecting the dining room with calculating eyes. “Amarië darling why don’t you sit here, next to Líriel—oh no, Líriel, sit sit, my sons are enough to help me—you too, Lindamilyo, sit down next to your mother. Fëanáro, stop standing around staring, sit down or come help me—ah, no need Celebrían dear, you and Elrond just sit here—Maitimo darling can you get the door, this must be our grandkids—Fingon go ahead and go a pair of seats, no one else is here anyway.”

In a few moments, the mess has been subsided and Nerdanel is inspecting everything with an air of satisfaction. Fëanor sits down and smiles at Lindamilyo, who smiles back at him. Maglor and Daeron sit down on Líriel’s right, with Elrond and Celebrían on their other side. Fëanor is very glad he decided to make that table large enough when he made it, otherwise who knows how many tables they would need to bring every time they invited the kids over for dinner.

“Great-grandfather!” Elladan cries, and he and Elrohir come up behind him to greet him before Celebrían beckons them over and they trot towards their mother obediently.

“A baby!” Elrohir says, catching sight of the bundle in Amarië’s arms. “Well, hello little one!” he coos, sitting down next to her so he’s in immediate reach of the giggling baby.

“We’re here!” Fëanor hears his only granddaughter cry loudly, before the girl in question rushes into the living room. She ducks Altissë’s arms when she goes to hug her, letting Celebrimbor in his mother’s mercy, and rushes forward with a big smile. “Where is the baby?” she demands. Some of her curls fall into her face and she pushes them back behind her ears again. “The baby—ah, there you are!”

Fëanor shakes his head at her antics. Celebrimbor sighs deeply; even in a large family gathering wearing a sleeveless outfit so his sleeve tattoos will be visible.

“If she didn’t learn about the baby, we would have been even more late,” he says.

“There’s no such thing as being too late,” Elenya says, still using her baby voice and not sparing Celebrimbor even a glance. “We’re both gay, so naturally, we’re only fashionably late. Aren’t we?”

“You’re late when there’s no food left to eat, Silmëmírë,” Celebrimbor tells her, using his nickname for her that Fëanor has come to realize is sort of an inside joke with someone who isn’t alive anymore, so he’s never asked. “Go say hello to grandma.”

“I am, I am,” Elenya grumbles, blows kisses to the baby and goes around the table to hug and give cheek kisses to everyone. Fëanor waits patiently for his turn, and Altissë snickers when Elenya runs off to find her dad.

“Right, how about we all sit down now that everyone is here?” Nerdanel says. Fëanor has always been very impressed by his wife’s efficiency. “Ah, Carnistir! Put that casserole right there, thank you! No, no sit down—where is your brother? _Sit,_ Atarinkë. Tyelperinquar! You came as well—come come, let me hug you.”

Gradually, everyone gravitates towards the dinner table, and it keeps getting livelier. Fëanor himself has sat down right next to Nerdanel, with Maedhros on his other side and Fingon right next to him; this going to your husband’s house business is really quite funny, but Fingon came to Fëanor’s dinner table first this year, so have _that,_ Nolofinwë. Caranthir wisely decides not to squeeze himself in between Elenya and Celebrimbor, and so settled next to Elladan instead.

It’s not really a sitting arrangement that Fëanor can explain without visuals. It requires one to be able to see the large table that stretches through the whole room, the half-closed white curtains that were a handmade gift from Caranthir on Nerdanel’s last birthday, the heavy oak furniture piece under the curtains that a gift from Celebrimbor and Elenya to Fëanor; in their own words, for all the birthdays they missed while they were dead. It even has a funny inscription about how receiving gifts from dead people is bad luck—a human saying, Celegorm told him, that Elenya’s wife used to say. And then cried because he never got to meet his daughter’s wife.

The dinner table is in a beautiful white embroidered cloth, with candles in the middle despite the lamps Fëanor himself has invented and hung all around the house, full of plates with food, cutlery and his family laughing and talking with each other—and well, Amarië too, she’s technically his niece now, isn’t she? He really didn’t expect his family to grow so much, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Who said I’m not?” Celegorm asks. “I’m doing plenty!”

“Tyelkormo, darling, after you chew,” Nerdanel sighs, knowing that it won’t change anything at this point.

“Irissë comes around plenty of time, you know,” Celegorm continues, though he heeds Nerdanel’s advice this time. “Lómion too, sometimes, but he prefers the forge so only Curvo and Tyelpe get to see him often.”

“You could visit the forges once in a while,” Elenya shrugs. “It’s what I do.”

“Please,” Celebrimbor scoffs. “When was the last time you came to visit the forges? Months ago.”

Elenya narrows her eyes and points her fork at him. She looks so much like Celegorm sometimes that Fëanor gets hit by unexpected deja-vus; the same strawberry blond curls, the same dark green eyes, the same hand gestures and offended non-existent eyebrows. Though, her dynamic with Celebrimbor reminds Fëanor more of Celegorm and Caranthir than Curufin.

“Aunt Altissë is there to tell you to eat and go to sleep now, so I don’t have to,” Elenya says. “I don’t have to worry about whether or not you’re taking care of yourself every time Venya asks me if I’ve eaten yet.”

“Who asks you if you’ve managed to seduce Lindariel yet?” Celebrimbor asks, and Elenya almost chokes, coughing and pointing a finger at him in accusation.

“Shut up,” she says, colour rising to her face. “It’s not my fault she’s not getting the hints! She’s beautiful like the sunrise but as oblivious as a brick. A very attractive brick, obviously—”

Celegorm snorts into his wine. Someone—Fëanor isn’t sure who, but there are a lot of options—kicks him under the table.

“Well, I mean, you’re her husband’s ex-girlfriend?” Lindamilyo points out. “Maybe she thinks you’re straight, Alya.”

“Me?” Elenya demands, in the tone Fëanor once used to rise up to insults; with his fists, usually. “ _Me?_ Straight? I have never been straight in my entire life. Don’t insult me.”

“You have to admit,” Celebrimbor says, “that your track record for romantic relationships proves you are attracted to pretty people, dumb people, and straight people that are both pretty and dumb.”

“No—” Elenya tries to argue.

“Thranduil was straight,” Lindamilyo says. “Like, have you _seen_ the guy? His only character flaw is being cis and heterosexual. I mean, he’s pretty and dumb _and_ rich _and_ he _likes_ you, so he can stay, but he’s on thin ice, you know.”

“And Vendëlóte,” Celebrimbor adds. “Vendëlóte is definitely straight. Just accept it, Silmëmírë, your one character flaw isn’t killing people—it’s falling in love with straights.”

“Look, maybe I fell in love with two straight people, but the woman I married was a lesbian, so I have self-preservation instincts, if nothing else,” Elenya defends. “Besides, Lindariel is not straight. She just doesn’t know it yet, and it drives me _mad._ She complimented my ass the other day and she _still_ thinks she’s straight.”

Fëanor sees his son choke and is glad he’s had the foresight to keep a distance from his glass for this particular conversation. Ambarussa are making _‘really? Right in front of my salad?’_ faces, and while he can’t really disagree, Elenya’s frustrations sound like a despairing issue. As far as Fëanor heard, she’s been trying to get Lindariel to like her for about a year now.

“I mean, who finds out that their husband is still on speaking terms with his hot ex-girlfriend and invites her to dinner?” Elenya demands. “No one who’s _straight,_ let me tell you. I _told_ Thranduil we should talk to her about the poly thing, but he insists she should come to terms with it on herself first! I’ll grow old by then!”

“You’re already a few thousand years old,” Celebrimbor says dryly. “Trust me, you won’t wrinkle in your old age if you haven’t already.”

“Even Legolas has caught up!” Elenya says, throwing up her hands. “ _Legolas!_ And it wasn’t even because Elladan and Elrohir told him.”

“We would not!” They both cry at the same time.

“Well, how about you start giving her more obvious hints?” Elrond suggests, handing Gil-galad a plate with roasted steak.

“How much more obvious?” Elenya sighs. “Short of kissing her and telling her I’m in love with her, I’ve done everything! Everything!”

“Find a different girlfriend then,” Lindamilyo says. “Didn’t you say Círdan’s daughter was really cute?”

“Ugh, that will take ages,” Elenya whines, propping her chin on her palm. “Elerondo, pass me the olives. And no one can guarantee me that she’s less oblivious than Lindariel.”

“I mean, you can have someone else drop hints,” Gil-galad says. There’s a moment of silence. “What?” he asks, self-consciously, when they all turn to look at him.

“Ereinion, you are a _genius,_ ” Elenya says excitedly. She’s not close enough to tackle him, but Fëanor highly suspects that she would if she could. “I knew there was a reason you were my second favourite cousin.”

“Who’s first then?” Fingon asks, sounding greatly amused.

“Tyelpe,” Elenya says. “Even though he gets on my nerves. And Lindamilyo is third, because he has the energy of number three. Lómion is fourth because he never visits me first, and well—I don’t actually have any more cousins, huh.” She frowns.

“No other cousins?” Maedhros asks, raising a brow. “What about Idril? Or Orodreth and Finduilas?”

“I don’t like Orodreth,” Elenya makes a face. “He’s pretty, but god, at what cost? And Idril and I never really talk. Finduilas has special rights, though, because she’s better than all of you.” Then her eyes suddenly light up, like she’s thought of something. “You guys, this is it. You know what’s missing? A baby.” She glances at Amarië’s baby and adds; “a new baby.”

“A baby,” Fingon says slowly, in a tone Fëanor can’t really discern.

“Aren’t there enough of us already?” Ambarrussa asks. “More babies?”

“You are still babies,” Maglor informs him, with great pointedness, and Ambaráto huffs.

“What did I say about announcing other people’s news, Alyanárë,” Maedhros sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t announce anything!” Elenya says, looking very innocent. It’s the sort of act that Fëanor, after six children, has come to know means that one is indeed very guilty as accused. “I didn’t say anything! Anything at all!”

“We didn’t even tell you!” Fingon protests. “We haven’t told anyone yet! We didn’t even tell Ereinion yet, and he’s our son!”

“Me?” Gil-galad blinks. “What did I do?”

“Told what?” Celegorm demands. He nudges Caranthir, as if his brother should know, but Caranthir continues to eat, unbothered.

“I don’t know anything!” Elenya insists. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“What news, Maitimo darling?” Nerdanel inquires. Maedhros and Fingon looks at each other, and then Maedhros sighs in defeat.

“Findekáno and I are having a baby,” Maedhros says. He sighs as he says, like this wasn’t the right time for the secret to be revealed, but he still sneaks a small smile to share with Fingon.

Fëanor blinks and attempts to process that. He knows Maedhros’ body is equipped to have a baby despite his gender; Gil-galad wouldn’t have been here otherwise, but this is all very sudden. Nerdanel has no such inhibitions.

“You’re pregnant again?” she asks, delighted. “Darling, that’s wonderful news! Fëanáro, Fëanáro did you hear? Fëanáro, we’re going to have another grandchild!” Nerdanel laughs, clapping her hands, as everyone breaks out into congratulations for Maedhros and Fingon. Fëanor smiles, wide and bright. He’s going to be a grandfather again. He can hold another baby again!

“Can I give predictions now that everyone knows?” Elenya asks eagerly, entirely unrepentant at baiting her uncles into announcing early.

“Fine,” Maedhros sighs, but he smiles at her. “But if you want to properly read at the baby, another time.”

“Next week,” Elenya agrees immediately. “Alright, alright!” She nudges Celebrimbor in the ribs. “I _told_ you there was a baby!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Celebrimbor rolls his eyes. “I thought it was the toddler baby—will you give a prediction now?”

Elenya smiles her widest smile, enough to tear her face in half. “Twins,” she says, proudly, and the room breaks into chaos again. Fëanor’s eyes blur a little, but he catches sight of Fingon crying openly on Maedhros’ shoulder, as Líriel pats him, so it’s all fine.

“Twins?” Gil-galad demands, sounding very emotional. “I am having _two_ new siblings?”

“Hey,” someone calls from behind them, and Fëanor turns to see Finrod standing next to the door, looking happy but bewildered. Amarië (and her baby) rush to hug him immediately. “What did I miss?”

**Author's Note:**

> this is like. my first tolkien fic in almost four years so go easy on me. and ofc naturally if you leave me a comment i will help you plan a coup against your vile and tyrannic brother and seize the throne for your benefit
> 
> special thanks to [my friend monica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticlove/pseuds/theoreticlove) for beta reading!!!
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/e_fairylights) and [tumblr](https://feanoriansappreciation.tumblr.com/)!! this fic is retweetable [here](https://twitter.com/e_fairylights/status/1340659134245515267?s=20)


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